We Are the Moon
by Fizzing Wizard
Summary: How I met Ishida Yamato: At the mouth of his open casket, on a cold and blistery autumn afternoon. He’d been dead for just a week, which explains why he looked so calm and everything. The truth hadn’t quite sunk in yet. That’s a true ghost story for you.
1. Part I: Courage

**僕らが月**

∙ **bokura ga tsuki ∙**

∙ **We Are the Moon ∙**

_"And the wild regrets,  
and the bloody sweats,  
none knew so well as I:  
For he who lives more lives than one  
more deaths than one must die."  
- Oscar Wilde_

Beneath the glass it has been pleasantly cool for a long time. How long, he can't begin to guess. Long enough that he's started to miss the vapors on his skin. Hours, days, even centuries could have passed quietly without his knowing, bleeding together like fresh paint washed by a rainstorm. Fortunately he doesn't mind, doesn't care to guess at all.

Later it occurs to him that it isn't cool he feels. It is still.

Still as a tangible sensation is a new idea, but fitting. All around him is still, from the smooth silver suspended above him, to the clasped hands rigid at his breast.

It is into this utter tranquility that he awakens. Awareness trickles in like sand in an hourglass, one grain at a time, until he treads the brim of consciousness. There are others whose presence is a constant at his elbows, each without a single breath. At first they provide the comfort of companionship. But as reality filters through his dreamworld – the sigh of wind, the shudder of sunlight – he is seized with trepidation.

For the companions beside him are wholly without warmth.

* * *

**- ****Part I: Courage**** -**

When we die, what's leftover - the flesh, the meat of the body - is swallowed by the earth. Soft tissues are the first to rot, and in their wake comes that awful smell. Hemoglobin breaks down, and the corpse releases gases and becomes bloated. Next the skin and the nails detach and crumble away. Eventually all the fluids dissipate, the bones decay into dust, and the body folds in on itself. By this time, only the parasites are left.

It's all very orderly and predictable, like following a recipe for sesame chicken. Of course there are variables that affect the process. Children's bones are smaller and not as dense as adult bones, so they decay faster. Acidity, temperature, even the food trapped in the stomach influence the rate of decomposition.

That reminds me. Once in elementary school, my class took a day trip to a museum. The highlight of the day was an exhibit on Egypt, which was Brand New and For a Limited Time Only. I remember peering up at a wall adorned with old paintings, the colors peeling away and half the pictures missing. Equally ancient artifacts lined the halls, side by side with panels explaining how the stick-like animal figures carved on this ivory comb were over four thousand years old, how this crude stone bowl was used to offer libations to the gods.

But I was eight, a manic fan of Beetlejuice for the simple reason that he was gross, and my favorite color was "snot green" because saying so put wrinkles into my best girl friend's (not _girlfriend)_ pert little nose.

So the main attraction was naturally the mummy. Who doesn't love a dead guy?

And maybe it was because we'd been anticipating the mummy for so long, or maybe it was just that the mummy was our last stop in the exhibit. Either way, with the superstitious, giddy excitement that is synonymous with eight- to nine-year-olds, we barely paused to look at anything else. The corridor seemed to darken with every step. I vividly remember asking a friend if Nike sneakers were acceptable footwear before a Pharaoh's throne. The mummy's chamber looked like a gaping maw, in spite of being sectioned off with red rope, and afterwards several of my friends swore they heard a guttural, thunderous moan from within.

Inside, the first thing I remember is the sarcophagus. It was huge and ornate, carved meticulously out of alabaster. It had probably never belonged to the mummy on display, which right away scared the crap out of me. All those movies about ruthless, flesh-eating mummies, and no one ever thought they might be mad that their bed had been taken away? I would be. If I were dead.

Next to the sarcophagus, encased in glass like a window into another world, was the mummy.

His cheeks were crushed in and his nose had long since disintegrated. His skeletal hands were splayed over his chest, exposed down to the last blackened bone. We half-expected roving eyeballs to roll into his empty sockets and pin us with a deadly curse. His jaw hung open, lined by the remnants of brown and rotten teeth.

At first I was like, wow, how cool is that. Especially how those ancient Egyptians extracted his brain through his nose. I want to be embalmed too!

And then Sora – that's my girl best friend's name – sucked in her breath and said, "Geez, I'd hate to be naked like that in front of all these people."

It's weird sometimes, the things kids fixate on. But after she said that, I had trouble looking at the mummy, even for a brief glance. I even had those naked dreams – you know the ones – for a couple weeks afterward. The other kids tried to count his ribs, without much success. They rapped on the smeared glass with their knuckles and called me sissy when I hung back, nearest the light. But I kept thinking how awful it would be if long after I'd died, people were still staring at me and calling me names and mock-pleading with me not to be eaten. This guy had a face as ugly as camel dung, but I didn't think he'd have ever eaten anybody. He probably just wanted everyone to shut up so he could get some sleep.

Years after I realized how silly it was to get so worked up over a mummy (and convinced myself that he must have written a will donating his body to science), I went to a classmate's funeral. Not a kid I ever knew too well. It just so happened that my sister was dating his brother and had only just decided to tell me after the dude was lying cold in the morgue. Therefore I felt obligated (by some ridiculous and obsolete sense of brotherly duty) to go to the funeral and introduce myself.

That's how I met Ishida Yamato. At the mouth of his open casket, on a particularly cold and blistery autumn afternoon, as I surreptitiously tried to watch my sister while she let a tall blond boy cry on her arm. The kid had been dead for just about a week, which was probably why he looked so calm and everything. The truth hadn't quite sunk in yet.

And because he hadn't figured out how to talk, he just gave me this cold look that said, "You let her hurt my little brother and I'll haunt you until you're mad as the bum who skulks around the Rainbow Bridge chewing scraps of leather."

And that's a true ghost story for you.

**

* * *

Chapter One**

Mondays are not my specialty. Especially when they come after a weekend of rigorous training at the soccer club per Coach's vengeful decree. We'd missed out on the prefectural tournament, again. When I entered Kasumigaoka Junior High, the first thing Coach said to me after I made it to regulars was, "Now that we have you on board, maybe we can actually make it to the subfinals this year."

So he was fairly disappointed when, after pinning so much hope on this year's team, I failed to get us into the running. But I wasn't too messed up over _that._ I mean, everyone knows a striker, no matter how amazing he is, can't carry a team by himself. If you'd asked me, I would have said that we needed to up our defense – our No. 11 Wingback was especially weak with feints. Plus the Captain was a grade-A bastard with a chip on his shoulder the size of Sony Tower –

– but I'm getting off track (that happens kind of a lot).

I don't even remember who represented Tokyo at the games. Actually I do, but they weren't from Odaiba so it'd be an insult to my hometown if I named them. They were incredible, though, not that anyone cared. The rest of Japan was too busy gushing over the high school baseball tournament at Koushien, which was broadcasted on TV and caused all this hoopla. Baseball is fun but its fan club attracts some serious wackos.

(Focus, Taichi. You were talking about Mondays. Which does lead somewhere relevant, I promise.)

Anyway, so this Monday morning my calves ached like I'd spent the weekend racing a steamroller, and I found goose bumps all along my arms for no apparent reason, which was foreboding enough in itself. You know those mornings when you wake up and you're not sick, but you feel as if you've spent the entire night retching, and there's this foul taste in your mouth like you haven't brushed your teeth since the invention of jazz? That's what this was like. I'm usually an early riser, but that day my eyelids stung with exhaustion, and the thought of breakfast made my stomach go chilly and sick.

It was quarter to seven and my sister was in the bathroom conducting a small, out-of-tune orchestra starring the hair dryer. I kicked the covers off with less than my usual gusto and sat up. Outside, I remember, the gray sky was one mass of cloud threatening to expend itself, which is worse than an actual downpour because it taunts you with the hope that maybe, if you're very quick, you can beat the rain. So you rush around, crushing your homework in your bookbag, getting your comb trapped in your knots, dashing madly outside with a slice of toast clenched between your teeth. And then the sky opens up, and it's not just a drizzle, not just your average rain, but a veritable typhoon and soon you're soaked through and shivering like an underfed hare.

Ah, went down another route there, sorry. I'm what you call "absent-minded." At least that's the polite term, what Sora calls me is a different matter.

So there's me _finally_ getting up – that's not bedhead either, that's what I look like on a daily basis – and I entered the kitchen to discover my mom had, once again, attempted french toast for breakfast. I don't know who told her banana and kimchi are a good combination but you've never tasted anything truly disgusting until you've combined those flavors with the richness of french toast.

"Mom," I said without much hope, "I made my own breakfast last night. It's the egg salad sandwich in the fridge."

"Sorry honey, your father ate it when he got home. He didn't know." Mom cast an apologetic glance over her shoulder, then flipped a piece of toast on the pan. "Would you get yourself and your sister some yogurt?"

Yogurt, at least, is generally safe from my mother's crazy culinary whims. I found two containers of the vanilla variety and poured them in a pair of bowls. As an afterthought, I threw in some banana slices, since it would be a tragedy if my sister lost her taste for banana completely after that mangled french toast.

Speaking of Hikari, my sister – she was eleven years old at the time. She's known for her age-exceeding wisdom and common sense, two attributes I can't put any claim to myself. Some people have even referred to her as semi-ethereal. That's bull, of course – my sister's smart, and kind, and I'm proud of her, but she's no shining angel when she doesn't get her way. She cuts her hair in a short, not exactly boyish, but practical style and before that day, she'd almost never worn any hair accessories to school. So when she pranced in with a shiny pink barrette clipping her bangs to the side, my mom and I couldn't help but notice.

"That's cute," my mom said, pointing. "Where did you get it?"

Color flooded Hikari's cheeks. "It was a present," she muttered, looking at the floor. She scampered to the table and ducked her head behind the newspaper.

Mom and I exchanged a glance. "A present from who?" I asked, sidling over to the chair next to her.

"A friend," was her informative reply. I propped my chin in my hand.

"Chika?" I guessed.

"No."

"Reimi? Momoko? Ayu?"

"No."

"It's not from Koushirou, is it?"

Finally she looked up, mouth open, gawking me like I were some monkey in the zoo making a show of picking at his butt. "Of course not, why would you _think_ that?"

"Because I've gone through your close girl friends, and if it's not from them, it must be a gift from a boy," I lied. Actually I'd been sure from the start that the barrette was a present from an admirer. First, because my sister is cute and smart, and second, because otherwise she wouldn't have tried to hide it from us. "And Koushirou was a natural starting point because he's here around you all the time."

"If Koushirou-san likes anyone, it's you," Hikari grumbled into the TV listings.

I frowned and swatted at her. "Koushirou is married to his computer. But I don't know of any other guys you know. It had better not be someone from my school."

"Oniichan, I'm not going to date a junior high schooler."

"Aha! So you are dating!"

"I'm trying to read, would you leave me alone, please?" She said this very primly – anyone less proficient in Hikarese would have believed she really was not flustered. Meryl Streep would have been impressed.

"Maybe I should try to guess who he is." I wracked my brain for the names of Hikari's schoolmates. "Oh lord, it's not that Motomiya, is it? He's been ogling you since the third grade. Back then it was, well, more funny than cute, but –"

"If _he_ likes anyone, it's _you,"_ Hikari repeated, starting to sound annoyed. "His fan boy crush was only diverted to me, since I wear skirts more often."

"That reminds me, I need to go shopping for some of those in seasonal colors."

"It's definitely not Daisuke-kun, so don't even think it," she sighed, folding the newspaper and pushing it away from her. I recognized the signs of defeat and gave a satisfied smirk. "You don't know him. He moved to Odaiba from Sangenjaya at the start of the spring semester."

"And his name is?"

"He's on the basketball team. And he's one-quarter French, and can actually speak it a little. He's an A student, except in calligraphy. His penmanship is abysmal."

"Hikari, his name..?"

She pursed her lips and looked at me squarely. That expression on my sister always means Serious Business. Mom passed by serenely and slid two plates of exotic french toast towards us. Simply because I had nothing else to do with my hands, I picked up my fork and dug in.

"If I tell you, you have to promise you won't follow me to school and harass him," Hikari said.

I pretended to be hurt. "Hikari, how can you say that? You would strip me of my duties as your brother, which are all in your best interest, to capriciously do away with the blessing of virginity?"

"Oniichan!" She smacked me this time, so I shoved her back. Soon we were off the chairs, tussling in the hallway, our breakfasts forgotten. Thinking we were just playing, I reached for her hair clip, but she kicked me swiftly in the groin. As I doubled over, she dashed to the _genkan,_ pulled on her shoes, and slung her bookbag over her shoulder.

"If you're going to be a jerk about it, I'm not going to tell you!" she shrieked, slamming the door behind her.

I gasped for breath, scratching at the walls. I heard the soft pad of my mother coming up behind me. "You sure blew that one," she said cheerfully. She held up my plate. "Don't you want any more?"

"I can't believe you're not worried now that she has a boyfriend." Wincing, I wrapped my fingers around a corner of the end table and levered myself up.

"She never said she has a boyfriend. It's natural for a pretty young girl to have fans. And even if she does, what's to worry about? She's eleven, and dating is an uncharted territory for her. If she's been bit by puppy love, the worst we have to look out for is some timid hand-holding and lots of giggling around the dinner table."

My mom is, to say the least, unusual in her life philosophy. It might take more than the fall of the nation to stress her out. She has a zillion and one hobbies which take up most of her time, so it's probably a good thing that she ended up with two very independent kids. Sometimes she has to lecture me about my study habits (or lack thereof), or fuss over Hikari when she gets sick because her immune system is full of kinks. But as for the rest of it, Hikari and I mostly take care of ourselves. So I wasn't really surprised that she wasn't concerned about the mysterious boyfriend. Just sore because I don't like losing a fight, and because Hikari kicks like a pro-QB.

My mood simmered down a bit on the ride to school. I had this rusting lime green bike with an orange bell which didn't really work anymore, only made this sad sort of toothless sigh. It was a shoddy piece of junk and man, I miss it. I named it Bastian because it seemed like a completely unsuitable name, even though I hadn't read _The Never-Ending Story._

Bastian was the laughing stock of Kasumigaoka Jr. High. When I parked at the bike rack, anyone who happened to coast in near me would advise me to forget my key and let someone steal it, and then maybe my parents would buy me a new one. Other kids liked to pretend its color was the result of having been dipped in nuclear waste. The less creative claimed it looked like something chucked up by a very large cat.

I didn't mind their jeers, and I don't think Bastian did either. We both loved the attention. I'm sure that if you don't like people paying attention to you, you don't ride rundown lime green bicycles.

Which brings me to Ishida Yamato.

He was definitely the kind of person who loathed the spotlight. In fact, I only have two memories of him from before It happened. Once in P.E., he somehow ended up the only player left on his dodgeball team, and we all pelted him with rubber balls at once. Another time, during math class, he gave a presentation on how math and music are interrelated. I actually found that very interesting, even though we called him a show-off and a suck-up.

He wasn't an athlete, but that doesn't mean he was a weakling. By the time we were in sixth grade, most of us were struggling in different stages of prepubescent discord. Yamato neatly bypassed that hellish period of awkward vocal squawks, and was speaking in butter-smooth stentorian tones in time for Christmas. The rest of him matured along with his voice, until he was the third tallest in our year, but somehow his limbs never seemed gangly or underdeveloped. His long legs gave him an advantage during the mile run, and he was particularly adept at the high jump. I think a part of him liked exercise, and would have enjoyed playing a sport, but he was always too stiff-necked to work with a team.

He had beautiful eyes. It sounds strange to say that, but it's the truth. I've been told a few time times that my eyes are one of the few redeeming features of my otherwise clownish face, and yet Yamato's eyes were far more enchanting. They were a vivid blue, darkly and thickly lashed, and when he wasn't thinking about anything in particular, just gazing off in that distant way of his, you'd get a chill like you were spying as someone peeped into another world. Once you met his eyes, no matter how briefly, you were riveted.

You're probably wondering how I know so much about a guy I claim I hardly knew before he died.

Well, let me backtrack a bit.

The first clue that something was wrong at Kasumigaoka came when I locked up Bastian and no one bullied me over it. If I'd been more alert, I would have noticed the solemnity that covered the school like a shroud. But I was too preoccupied thinking about Hikari's boyfriend, and which of the twelve methods I knew to put the fear of Big Brother in him I should try first.

When I slipped into my classroom, it was eerily silent – no one sat perched on the desks, chatting in groups or softly in pairs. Even my homeroom teacher, Kikuchi-sensei, set his mouth in a grave line as he stood in front of the chalkboard, palms pressed on either side of his desktop. I covered my mouth with my hand, which was the only way I could think of to let my classmates know I would respect the somber mood, since normally I couldn't be counted on to stay quiet and still for any reason.

Kikuchi-sensei didn't say a word until after the first period bell. Then he straightened up and raked a hand through his receding salt and pepper hair. I thought, _Now he's going to tell us the district's changed our curricula in the middle of the semester, and we've got to start over from the beginning._

Instead, he puffed through his mouth, clasped his hands in front of him. He stared across the room, barely grazing the tops of our heads. "I know it's not our usual day for the all-school morning meeting, but we're stepping outside of routine for a short while today so we can hear an important announcement. Now everyone please line up at the door."

We filed down the hall with less shuffling and griping than usual. I noticed some girls sniffling and holding on to each other, and a couple boys wiping their sleeves across runny noses. I turned to my soccer club mate, Seiichi, and asked, "What happened, is the district bringing back school lunches or something?"

Seiichi only shrugged and shook his head. In retrospect, he wasn't the best person on whom to spring a pop quiz. Seiichi wouldn't notice his own house if it weren't for the giant soccerball decal glued to the door.

In the gymnasium, we found seats on the floor and waited. The principal emerged shortly, tugging at his collar. The bald spot on the top of his head shined pink with sweat. He stepped up to the microphone and inched his polished dress shoes to the very edge of the makeshift stage.

"Students," he began in a voice rough and curdled with age, "I'm afraid I have to share some very sad news. I've debated with myself for a long time, trying to find the easiest way to break this to you, but the truth is there is no easy way. I can only believe that you are all mature enough, strong and kind-hearted enough to understand and accept the gravity of the situation, and handle it with proper care.

"I'm sure you've all noticed the absence of one of our highly esteemed students. I'm sorry to inform you that second year, class two, Ishida Yamato, died early this morning after a drunk driver crashed into him in the bike lane."

An audible gasp echoed through the rows of students. I think I froze with my knees pressed to the floor, staring dumbly at the teachers arranged at the foot of the stage like the grim guards at Buckingham Palace.

The principal cleared his throat. "I would like to take this moment," he said hoarsely, "to remind you of the importance of minding traffic rules. They are there for your safety. Please make sure you always keep to the left side of the road, and ride on sidewalks and bicycle paths as much as you can. Avoid the main roads. If your bike isn't in good condition, especially if you're having difficulty with the brakes, please have it repaired quickly.

"Ishida Yamato," he went on, shoulders heaving, "was a beloved student with a very promising future ahead of him. He was intelligent, and tremendously skilled in music and science. At the end of his first year he received an Award of Excellence for high marks in those same subjects. To his teachers he always showed due deference, and he was never anything but courteous to his fellow students. Our hearts go out to the family of this fine young man who was taken from us in such an untimely fashion. He will be well missed… Kasumigaoka will not be the same without him."

Miwa-sensei, Yamato's homeroom teacher, had started to cry during the principal's speech, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Another teacher gripped her shoulder and held out a lighter. Together they lit the wax candle in Miwa-sensei's hands, and she in turn held her flame to Kikuchi-sensei's wick. This pattern repeated down the whole row of teachers, until the stage glimmered with flickering yellow lights.

"We light these candles in the memory of the brilliant soul of our fellow classmate, student, and friend. Ishida Yamato."

The principal fell silent. The soft inhale, exhale of my breath sounded disruptively loud in face of whatever heavy spirit possessed the room. I don't know exactly how long we waited, only that it felt like eternity, and my chest grew tighter with each passing second. Finally, the principal blew out his flame. The rest of the teachers followed suit. Students eventually began to talk in dim, almost reverential whispers, as if Ishida Yamato himself were lurking nearby, listening.

"I want you all to know that we are here for you," continued the principal. "Each of your teachers has an open ear to listen should any of you feel the need to talk. Additionally, we have counselors on site, and they are at your disposal. The minute you feel overwhelmed, come to us. Let us help. Don't ever feel ashamed of your emotions, or try to deal with them on your own. It is a perfectly natural thing to be frightened and confused after an event like this, and we are here to help you cope. As things stand, I am contacting your parents and sending you all home. Take this day to come to terms with what has happened, and remember our classmate fondly in the future."

It was in a daze that I made myself get up and trudge to my locker. A group of my buddies caught up with me, and started reviewing the school meeting, taking guesses at how exactly Ishida got himself killed. That's to be expected of teenage boys, I guess, and I act the same often enough. But that day my cheeks burned as other red-eyed students passed by, shooting the group of us reproachful looks.

Part of me wished I could cry. But it was tough, because I didn't know Yamato, and the most I felt was the sickness in my stomach churning miserably. I wondered if this was the shame the principal had mentioned – the shame of not being able to miss someone you never knew.

At the same time, that this tragedy had occurred at my school really did hit home. That was troubling enough itself. I remember wondering if they'd close down the school, turn it into a memorial of sorts and relocate the rest of us elsewhere. It didn't feel right to go on with classes the same as always.

Of course, there was no new school. We took our classes in the same rooms as always, horsed around in the same halls as always. Our initial discomfort passed in time. A photograph of Yamato was placed in the library, on a shelf labeled "Ishida Yamato's Favorite Books." The school newspaper ran his picture with a flowery obituary in the following month's edition.

But that Monday, none of that seemed imaginable. Or rather, we imagined it, but to admit to having such normal thoughts left us feeling uncomfortably like traitors.

**

* * *

Chapter Notes:**

_A/N: Hi again, kittens! Thanks for reading. There are probably quite a few spelling/grammar errors in my current draft of this fic. There's always a few I don't catch, but particularly here I keep stumbling upon stupid mistakes. It's partly because I'm using a font I'm not used to, but mostly because I'm writing this very fast (just finished chapter four!) and late at night, so my skills are failing me. Therefore, if you catch any glaring errors, let me know and save me future embarrassment.  
_

_Also, the reference to Takeru living in Sangenjaya is a tidbit I picked up from a LiveJournal translation of the Digimon novels. I don't know for sure how official the novels are, but the translator thinks they can mostly be considered canon. Currently I don't have Internet access on my PC, so I can't access my favorites and find the translator's name. If anyone happens to remember it, please let me know so I can give proper credit!_

_Lastly: I know next to nothing about soccer, so please forgive me for any inaccuracies._

_I hope you enjoyed this opening chapter, and stick around for the next!_

_(BTW, I really, REALLY wanted to put "Yamato's dead! Oh no'z! Beware the wrath of JUN THE ZOMBIE SLAYER" as the summary just to see what kind of responses I would get.)  
_


	2. Careful What You Wish For

**Chapter Two**

_Taichi:_

Yamato hated that photograph, by the way. He was actually smiling in it, and his mouth looked kind of lopsided, and one eyebrow was slanted as to give him a studly, Danny Zuko kind of leer. I think he mostly disliked that his eyebrows weren't plucked. He used to keep them trimmed in perfect arches, like a pair of bridges.

I met up with Sora and Koushirou at the school gate. Predictably, Koushirou was already mounted on his bike, eyes glued to the asphalt. Sora looked at me and gave a quivering smile.

"Do you know that guy? Ishida?" I said, blushing when I couldn't bring myself to use past tense.

Sora shrugged her bookbag over her shoulder. "A little," she admitted. "He was a member of the art club for a couple weeks. Then he quit because he said we didn't do anything interesting."

"One time, when some of the third years were covering me in Post-Its, he was standing by the water fountain, watching," Koushirou sighed.

"Sounds like a lovely guy," I replied, swinging a leg over my own bike.

"He had a band," Sora put in. 'They were pretty good. He sang."

I raised my brow. "So you only knew him a little?"

She turned pink and glared at me. "He was very popular among the junior high girls," she said stiffly, and jerked her head in the direction of the gate. I looked and noticed a gaggle of girls, puffy-eyed and lachrymose, collecting as if magnetized to cry together.

"I'm heading home," Koushirou said, nudging his bike upright.

"Do you want us to go with you?" Sora offered, even though Koushirou lived in the opposite direction.

But he declined and sped off. Koushirou is one kid I'll never fully get. He's sometimes weird, and practically psychic when it comes to computer troubles. He single-handedly set up wireless at my house. And he kicks ass at Halo 2. But he's also shy and reserved – I'm lucky if he shares anything personal with me once a year, and I'm supposedly his best friend. It's hard to guess what's going on in his head. Unlike me, who can't shut up for two minutes on a good day.

And he's non-confrontational in the extreme. When we first met, I'll admit I wasn't the most sensitive of elementary schoolers. I tended to spit out whatever was in my mind, and blame the other person if they ended up offended. I wasn't cruel, don't get me wrong – I never tried to hurt anyone deliberately – but you can't take the "I" out of "idiot" if you know what I mean. And there are two of them in "Taichi."

Anyway, Koushirou was an anomaly to me, so I had an endless stream of questions and critiques just for him. He got annoyed now and then, and later in our friendship, he'd even yell a little. But he never got outright mad. Instead he'd shrink away, try to make himself as inconspicuous as possible until… until I don't know. Until he'd calmed down, I guess, but I don't know how he did that, because I'd just steam over until finally blowing up.

Koushirou is supremely patient and private. As he disappeared around the corner, I wondered if I should go after him. Because who'd want to be alone at a time like this?

But Sora was already rolling down to the crosswalk, so I pushed my uncertainty aside and followed her.

Our apartment complexes are side by side, beside an alley leading downtown. Sora and I have known each other since as long as I've been alive. Our mothers joined the same parents-to-be group, where they were both generally without husbands to share the load, so they helped each other. Afterward they kept in touch, and because of their friendship Sora and I couldn't help seeing quite a lot of each other in those formative years.

Sora's always been a little more mature than me, even though I'm a couple months older. Probably she would never have bothered with a thick-skulled soccer fanatic like me if we hadn't been brought up almost like siblings. Now she's predisposed to forgive me anything and I take full advantage of that.

As we locked up our bikes, a frigid wind soared past, biting straight through my thin school blazer. "Brrr." Sora tilted her head and squinted at the sky. "Let's get inside quick. It's going to storm or something.

"I just can't believe it," she said as we waited for the elevator.

"Believe what?"

She dropped her shoulders in exasperation. "About Ishida Yamato-san, stupid. What do you think?"

Shrugging, I walked ahead of her, rummaging for the key to my apartment. Upon touching the knob, the door swung open unimpeded. Confused, I scanned the inside, then noticed my sister's shoes lined up neatly in the genkan.

"– Hikari?"

No answer. Sora and I exchanged a glance, entering mutely. As I padded down the hall in my socks, I heard soft sounds emitting from the gap below the door to my bedroom. Sobbing sounds. I didn't hesitate before pushing the door open.

Curled up on my bed was my sister, her arms wrapped around a gigantic plush Totoro doll. Her thin shoulders shook with fragile sobs. I would say she was more whimpering than crying, but that's my sister for you – she never likes to draw attention to herself.

I knew she'd heard me come in. Throwing my blazer over the desk chair, I squatted in front of her and tentatively touched her elbow. Sora sank onto the other end of the bed and folded her hands in her lap.

"Hikari," I murmured gently. Things like my tough guy rep never get in my way when it comes to my sister. "What is it? Tell me what happened, kiddo."

Hikari stiffened for a moment, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then she went limp, and let out a ragged breath. She rolled over and reached for me. I took a seat on the bed and pulled her into my arms.

Sora kept up a steady massage on Hikari's back, concern etched into her brow. Sora has a very long mouth, dark lips, and when she frowns she can't help but look infinitely sad.

"Come on, Hikari, tell me," I said as my sister cried into my chest. "I can't help if you don't tell me what it is."

"You can't help," she gasped brokenly, tightening her grip on my shirtsleeve. After a pause, she leaned back and wiped her face with her arm. Her eyes were huge and red, fat tears dribbling down her cheeks. "It's Takeru-kun," she said. "His brother. His brother died!"

Sora started. "Who's Takeru-kun?" I asked, guessing I was about to get two answers I really didn't want to hear.

"The barrette," Hikari said. I hadn't noticed, but her hair was loose again, the pink barrette balanced between her index finger and thumb. "He gave it to me. We've been going out since Friday. Or I should say we were," she sniffed, "because I doubt he feels much like going to movies and eating parfaits now that his brother is dead. He won't talk to me! I tried calling him, going to his house, but he won't even look at me!"

"… Is Takeru-kun's last name Ishida?" Sora asked.

I had a moment of relief when Hikari shook her head. But that quickly vanished when she replied, "That's his brother's last name. Their parents are divorced. His brother was Ishida Yamato."

I couldn't think what to do. Just that morning, I'd been consumed with jealousy over the boy my sister cared about enough to hide from me. Now I felt like such a nimrod. Not only was my sister dating a boy, but that boy now had to deal with the biggest catastrophe of his life. And he was only in elementary school.

Why? Why did it have to be my sister's boyfriend? Why couldn't something go her way just once?

"Hikari-chan," Sora said, the sheer weight of sympathy coloring her voice touching even me, "I'm so sorry."

In response, Hikari burst into tears.

* * *

Once Yamato told me that when I smile in a certain way, there is a kind of light that shines out and attracts lonely souls like moths just after dusk.

This was during one his "deep moods" which came over him on a fairly regular basis. Ghosts are very thoughtful. They don't have much else to do. Plus, I think Yamato was just that deep-thinker type while he was alive. He seemed to spend a lot of time thinking about me. I guess that's not unreasonable, considering our circumstances.

His big concern was that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull off that same smile.

Back then I didn't understand why that bothered him. So he couldn't smile like me. He was a different person, wasn't that to be expected? There were plenty of things he could do that I couldn't, such as watch a three-hour movie without getting up six times for six different reasons, or listen to and appreciate a Benny Goodman record, or hold an intelligent conversation without sneaking in one Southpark joke.

Now I wonder that I didn't figure it out then and there.

He was the one who was lonely.

Yamato was never easy to decipher, but there were times when I thought – optimistically – I'd finally mastered the key to his behaviors. And then he'd go and say or do something I didn't know what to make of, and usually I had to clean up the mess myself, even though I didn't know what the mess was in the first place which makes it very difficult to do a good job. As far as ghosts go, he was pretty troubled. Tons of regrets bogging him down. Regrets really do cause you a load of trouble in the afterlife, you know. That's why I've decided to live without them.

Which is a lot easier said than done.

* * *

During the week that passed before Yamato's funeral, the tree leaves suddenly and unanimously decided to brown, crinkle, and drop into piles. Delicate ice crystals glazed the ground in the morning, making biking to school a trial. A lot of students, paranoid now that one of our number had lost the duel with traffic, began getting up half an hour earlier and walking to school.

Yamato's funeral ushered in one of the bitterest winters in over ten years.

That was also the week I first met Takaishi Takeru. I think it was on Wednesday that he finally returned my sister's onslaught of messages. I took Hikari by his house with two pies, one of which we disposed of in a trash bin once we were out of our mother's sight. The other had been baked by my sister, and was therefore non-toxic, even though she had staunchly refused my help.

"I hope he likes blueberry," she said for the fifth time. Her scarf slipped and she adjusted her grip on the pie to rewrap it around her face.

For the fifth time, I ignored her. She wasn't talking to me anyway. Had barely talked to me all week. Everything was about Takeru, the little snot. If I hadn't felt so bad for him, I would have introduced him to my famous half-nelson.

At his apartment, Hikari made this frightened sort of noise and couldn't be persuaded to ring the bell. I rolled my eyes and rapped twice on the door.

"Hello," I called out. "It's Yagami Hikari and her amazing trained stooge."

"Oniichan!" Hikari shrieked, humiliated. Luckily her cheeks were already rosy from the cold.

She was saved further embarrassment when the door cracked open. A ten-year-old boy with a mop of wheat-blond hair peered shyly out at us from under the brim of a white bucket hat. His eyes were cornflower blue.

Since it didn't look like Hikari could speak, I stepped forward. "Hi," I said. "I'm Yagami Taichi. I think you know my sister. But I only know you as 'It's a secret'-san."

Hikari punched my shoulder. "Takeru-kun," she said anxiously, staring directly at his chin, "how are you?"

To my surprise, Takeru – whom I had taken to be the droll, bookish type – perked up upon hearing my sister's voice. His face split into a welcoming grin. "Thanks for all your messages," he said, voice cracking a couple times. "They cheered me up a lot."

Hikari brightened too, and thrust the pie towards him in one swift gust. "Umm, this is for you."

"Aw, thanks." Takeru took the package and stepped back so we could come inside. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know, but I wanted to." In the doorway, the two of them embraced. I waited for him to kiss her, or pat her butt, or do any of a thousand things that would give me lease to pummel him. But he didn't make any insolent moves, only held her tenderly, and slowly the smile faded from his face. Somehow, in spite of being at least a head taller, he managed to bury his face in the crook of her neck. I leaned awkwardly against the doorjamb, noticing with a tinge of envy that he was a bit taller and more filled out than I had been at his age. Hikari really knew how to pick them.

"Takeru, you have visitors?" A pretty woman with identical blue eyes appeared in the hallway. She seemed young to have – had – a fourteen-year-old son, not that I cared. I guessed her to be in her early thirties.

"Takaishi-san," I said with an uneasy bow, "my name's Yagami Taichi. And this is my sister, Hikari."

She nodded and smiled warmly at Hikari. "I know Hikari-chan. It's nice to see you again, sweetie."

Hikari had been to this boy's house before? I could barely keep all my questions from leaping off my tongue. I squirmed uncomfortably in this strange family's entryway, while my sister rubbed her palm in circles on her boyfriend's back.

Boyfriend. _Boyfriend!_

"I went to school with your son," I said at last, desperate to break the silence.

Something flashed across Takaishi-san's face. "Oh," she said in a small voice. She lifted a trembling hand, then gestured to the living room. "Won't you come in?"

Neither Takeru nor Hikari seemed inclined to move, so I assumed the invitation was for me. Although I was loath to leave them alone together, I didn't see any polite way of getting out of it.

The Takaishi apartment was small but cozy. There were house plants everywhere you looked, long leafy ferns, sunny chrysanthemums in ceramic pots, basil in the window, even a long-armed cactus on top of the entertainment center. Takaishi-san gestured for me to sit on the couch, but the minute I plunked down, my left knee started bouncing to an erratic rhythm.

Takaishi-san reentered the room with two steaming cups of oolong tea. "Yagami Taichi," she said experimentally. "I suppose I have heard your name."

I glanced up, managing to hide my surprise.

"You play soccer, don't you?"

I nodded.

"And you're a class representative."

How did she know so much? Ishida Yamato hadn't been part of either of those things. "Um, yeah."

She nodded thoughtfully, the cup of tea poised at her lips. "Your sister talks about you a lot."

Oh, well, that made sense. (Why had I hoped, even for a second, that some guy I'd never said more than two words to had mentioned me to his mother?)

"She's such a sweet girl," Takaishi-san went on. I'd tuned out and could only assume she was still on the subject of Hikari. "Takeru is lucky. They only starting 'dating' – and I use the term loosely – a few days before my son…" She trailed off, placing the tea cup back on its saucer. "… Any other girl wouldn't have been so loyal to a boy she'd only dated for a few days. But she called him so many times, and always let him know she was there if he wanted to talk. He would leave his door open so he could hear her messages on the answering machine."

"That's the kind of girl she is," I murmured.

"He's lucky," Takaishi-san repeated.

Cue awkward pause. I cracked my knuckles, gazing around the room. A print of a multicolored fractal design hung beside a bookshelf. Strung across the window was an array of autumn leaves, red-orange, gold, and deep plum. Small figurines shaped like children playing in the snow decorated the sill.

"Those are cute," I mumbled.

"They're called Snowbabies." The worry lines in Takaishi-san's brow vanished for a moment. "They're my favorite. I collect them." She stared at the figurines, then abruptly swiveled around. "Yamato was always sure to send me one for Christmas, even after the divorce."

Her voice broke. Her slender, pale fingers trembled as she tried to lift the tea cup. Anticipating disaster, I dove forward just in time to catch the cup before it fell and shattered. "I'm so sorry," Takaishi-san gasped. "I don't – I didn't see –"

And then suddenly there was this distraught grown woman next to me, her face buried in her arms, leaning her weight against my shoulder.

I gave her a self-conscious pat as heat spread from the back of my neck to the tips of my ears. Not knowing what else to do, I sat rigidly while she exhausted herself in tears. A thought for what her son would think if he walked in the room right now flitted across my mind, but I shoved it aside. I may not be that quick, but even I know it's basic kindness to comfort a bereaved mother.

She didn't lose herself for long, anyway. After a minute or two she sat up, wiping the corners of her eyes, and offered me a sheepish smile. "I'm so sorry," she croaked, wet-throated and embarrassed. "That wasn't fair of me, to cry all over you. I'm sorry you had to see that."

I'd only come by out of curiosity, of course, about my sister's boyfriend. Although if I had to admit it, a part of me did want to meet Ishida Yamato's family. The thought of entering the home of the deceased had me scared out of my wits, until Hikari informed me that Yamato had lived elsewhere with his dad.

Maybe it'll surprise you to know, considering how morbid this little chronicle of mine is, that I really dislike dead people. Like, _really_ dislike them. I don't relish a funeral (not that I know many people who do). And wakes are even worse. If it's open-casket, nothing in the world can entice me to take a look inside. I tried it once, at the funeral of some obscure relative, and you know how they say the recently dead look just like they're sleeping? Yeah, well, I have to disagree. Even sleeping people _move_ from time to time. The dead just lie prone, their skin as pale and brittle as winter's first frost. They are preserved in time like wax sculptures. It was that pervading stillness that frightened me the most. I always get sleepy after funerals, so when I was a kid, I thought that stillness was contagious.

It's not like people were dying in droves around me. But somehow or other it seemed like I always ended up passing the cemetery when I tried to bike somewhere new. Or a friend would ask me along (I can't use the word "invited") to some funeral or other, because apparently I'm good moral support. I'd attended maybe six funerals by the time I went to Yamato's. That's like a funeral every two years.

Before you ask, no, my father is not a mortician. Or a doctor. Or an assassin, shaman, excommunicated priest, etc. He's an accountant, and they don't tend to attract spirits unless they're very bad at their jobs.

Takaishi-san's tears, plentiful enough to water every last chrysanthemum, gave me something else to hate about the dead: the pain of the people who survive them.

It's an interesting phrase – to "survive" someone. "He is survived by his wife, so-and-so. She is survived by her four children. He is survived by his '67 Pontiac Grand Prix and cocker spaniel, Chuckles." At first I thought it meant that life is a race to see who can last the longest. But after meeting Takaishi-san, I changed my theory. Because what Takaishi Natsuko was doing at that time was not living. It was surviving, plain and simple. Going through the motions. Waiting for the day when the wound wouldn't be so raw, the smiles not so forced, the guilt not so heavy to bear.

When you lose someone you love, you have to survive for a while before you relearn what it means to live. More importantly, why living is important.

I stood up, anxious to leave now that I'd had a tearful woman drape herself over me. "I'll get you some more tea," I said, picking up her empty cup. She made as if to protest, but was cut off by another round of sobs. My heart was in my throat as I walked into the kitchen and drained the kettle into her cup.

The kitchen table was completely swamped in gifts. Bouquets of flowers, entire meals, gift certificates, Hallmark cards from the Sympathy section. You could see barely an inch of tablecloth under the mass of presents from well-wishers offering their condolences. That's another anomaly about death – how it brings people closer together by taking someone away.

Among the mound of gifts, something glinted and caught my eye. It was a framed photograph of two little boys, both blond-haired and blue-eyed, perched at a wharf with a pair of fishing poles. The smaller of the two wore a floppy bucket hat which drooped over the bridge of his sun-burnt nose. The taller held a fresh, plump bass in his arms, and was imitating its expression, slack-jawed and saggy-cheeked. As I stared at his face, contorted grotesquely, it hit me that this person would never fish again, would never goof off for a longsuffering photographer again. He was gone.

"Gone" when it applies to death is like the number "zero." It represents something that doesn't exist. Although whereas zero is a symbol filling in for something that never existed at all, gone is more like a hole where absence is keenly felt. You know it's not right, that there should be something filling that space, and yet no matter how hard you search you'll never find it. It's an incommunicable feeling. As for me, I think that's why whatever God or gods or randomly mingling chemicals created us gave us the ability to cry. When your mind is so numbed by grief that you can't process a single thought, you can cry and express more depth of emotion than a thousand painstakingly worded epitaphs.

Takaishi-san had composed herself by the time I returned with fresh tea. She is a very professional woman, always dressed to a T, fashionable and yet modest. Her posture is very erect and when she walks it is with purpose and confidence. I guess being a single mother in the solitary world of freelance writing forces you to become independent.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she said again. I shook my head, looking anywhere but at her.

"No prob. I, uh, understand." Shuffling my feet, I lingered at the foot of the rug. "I should probably be going."

She nodded and stood up. She gave me a long, measuring look, and then her lips curved in this inscrutable grin. "I wish you and Yamato had been friends," she murmured with a wistful glance out the window, so that I couldn't be sure if she really meant for me to hear. "He needed someone in his life with a good shoulder for crying on."

It's really odd to feel guilty for not doing something you didn't know you were supposed to do. But maybe because Yamato had been in mind so much since the previous Monday, I almost felt as if I had known him, and therefore should have been able to do something that might have prevented all this.

Anyway, Takaishi-san's words sounded more like a bitter reflection than a compliment, so I wasn't entirely sure how to take them. I decided not to think about it and waited restlessly while she went to scout out the happy couple.

The one thing that changed for the better was my impression of Takeru. After we said our farewells, and he'd been polite (but not prudish) and interesting (but not brainy) the whole while, I thought that probably, when he wasn't forcing himself to act normal, he'd be pretty fun to socialize with. And no question, he was good-hearted. He was obsessed with sponsoring endangered animals and his bedroom walls were plastered with pictures of dolphins and pandas that he'd rescued for $25 a year.

That doesn't mean I thought he was good enough for my sister, of course. No one's good enough for her. (But he'd come pretty close, if he'd just lose the hat.)

On the first floor of the Takaishi's apartment complex, there is a convenience store called I-Mart. Hikari and I stopped inside to pick up her favorite manga anthology, and I bought a container of cold, plain zarusoba. I was slurping the noodles as we walked when Hikari dropped the bomb on me.

"Takeru-kun's asked us to come to his brother's funeral," she said. I didn't miss her sneaky use of the plural and set her with a wary look.

"He asked for me to come too?"

She pursed her lips and glared at me. "Well, you were going to go anyway, since he was your classmate, right?"

That made me pause, because the truth was I hadn't decided if I were going to Yamato's funeral. Which is funny, considering how much he'd been in my mind lately. By then I probably needed closure as much as anyone in his circle. Yamato's homeroom class would certainly attend, but I had no idea how much of the rest of the school would turn out.

"I doubt his mom wants the entire junior high packing into the cemetery on such an emotional day," I said with a cynical slurp.

"Well, I'm asking you, because Takeru-kun asked me. You kind of knew him, didn't you? You were in the same class last year."

"… Yeah, we were," I realized, allowing myself a mental snort at my sister, who knew where I was and who I was with far more often than I did. Of course, that was where the math class memory came from. First years in junior high, Otoi-sensei's homeroom class. He sat in the back near a window, while I was placed (very deliberately) in the first row.

How strange it was that we spent an entire year in the same place, six hours a day, and I never really noticed him until he was dead.

* * *

So it was that on a nippy Saturday morning, instead of running laps with the soccer club, I pulled on my suit jacket, hunted for an acceptable gloomy tie, and made my way to the Saikouji cemetery.

Headstones dotted the hillside like freckles on a redhead. We stuck to the walkways and met up with a mass of dark-clothed spectators under a fluttering white canopy. A gargantuan maple, almost clean out of leaves, loomed over us like a temple god, overseeing the living and the dead through imperceptible eyes.

Hikari pulled her shawl tight around her slender shoulders. She wore a simple black skirt and blouse, which looked reasonably somber and age-appropriate. The only out-of-place element was the pink barrette clipping her bangs out of her eyes.

Without a word to me, she crept around the onlookers to reach Takeru, who was hunched over in a chair with his hands intertwined. The sight of her brought a small light to his face. From what I'd seen of their relationship until then, they were only friends innocently masquerading as a couple, because that's the "in" thing to do when you're in fifth grade. But it didn't matter. My mind traveled back to Takaishi-san's wish that Yamato had had a friend's shoulder to cry on. At least one of her sons wouldn't have to go without that.

"Hey," said Sora, appearing as if by magic. Although she'd told me she was coming to Yamato's memorial, I had yet to look for her. "Cheery spot for a party, isn't it? I just love the décor."

I grinned. "Yeah, everyone's in such lively spirits."

I wondered idly if it were blasphemous to joke at a funeral, even if you kept your tone of voice dismal and hushed, and turned to pose the question to Sora when the priest stepped forward.

This was not the first Christian funeral I'd been to, but they are by no means common in Japan. In general, people here are cremated, which is more efficient (and less creepy), if you ask me. Yamato's funeral was a mix of Catholic sentiment and Buddhist ceremony. I was also slightly confused, since Takeru had told me he and his mom weren't the least bit religious, so why did they bother with all the pomp of a proper ceremony? Later, when I asked, he mumbled something about nostalgia being stronger than rationale which I decided to accept rather than analyze.

We listened to the guy with the purple stole ramble for a while, standing amid a sea of flowers. Kasumigaoka's principal showed up with gel in what little was left of his hair, and so did Miwa-sensei, and I recognized several other faces from school as well. Beside Takaishi Natsuko stood a tall man in a rumpled shirt, with the look of someone who hadn't shaved in a while and felt exposed now that he finally had. Taking a guess, I assumed he was Ishida Hiroaki, Yamato's father. Now and then his gaze shifted from the coffin to his ex-wife, and then he would stare a while, until he realized she was ignoring him on purpose and switched back to the ceremony.

Eventually the attendants were invited to step up to the coffin and place a white lily among the cushions. I hesitated of course, since Yamato's body lay uncovered in that casket, and peering at a dead classmate was worlds more upsetting than the prehistoric corpse of some distant relation. But Sora, who didn't know how I felt about open-casket funerals, gave me a poke in line, and soon I found myself a foot away from those lifeless remains.

And even though at a funeral you're not supposed to spend too long staring at the body, because other people are waiting for a turn and anyway you're supposed to take care of your final business at the wake, I stopped in my tracks the minute his face came into view. His skin had turned a sickly gray, right down to his paper-thin eyelids. His hair, longer than normal for a junior high school boy, was brushed neatly to one side, a style I'm sure he'd never have chosen for himself. His mouth was set firmly, and somehow the arch of his brow gave him a look of serious thought even in death. Tucked between his hands was a plain silver cross.

Suddenly I heard myself talking. Not loudly, I mean, I wasn't about to commit social suicide at a freaking funeral for pete's sake. I kind of whispered, sometimes just moved my mouth, but I figured it didn't matter too much since Yamato couldn't hear me anyway.

"So I guess we never talked too much before now," I said, glued to that powder white face. "Which is probably my fault, so I'm sorry. And I know I'm a real hypocrite for saying this now, after it's all over, but I think it might have been nice if we'd been friends. You might not know, but my sister is dating your brother. And by 'dating' I mean they tell people they're a couple and then they blush and share conspiring glances whenever anyone mentions it. But they won't always be silly fifth graders, and you know, if their relationship sticks, I'm gonna wish Takeru had a brother watching out for him the way I do for Hikari. If I came too close to scaring him away in an overprotective frenzy, you'd give him his courage back and then come gut me, I bet."

Hikari and Takeru were, at that moment, handing out lilies to the train of people waiting behind me. He would pull a flower out of the bouquet and give it to her, and she would pass it on to the next person in line. Their movements were perfectly synched. Anyone would have thought they'd known each other all their lives, rather than since the previous April.

As I watched, Hikari turned around to reach for another flower. Her arm ended up knocking into Takeru's, and she jumped with a dazed and flustered laugh. Takeru smiled back, his eyes darting around, unsure where was safe to look.

Some foreign emotion settled inside me, impossibly heavy, sadness and resignation and fierce love all at once. Through the biggest tragedy of his life, this boy had found a way to make my sister incredibly happy.

How could I consider him a rival now?

Gingerly I slipped my lily into the crevice between Yamato's elbow and the cushion. "You don't have to worry," I whispered as I leaned over the casket. "From now on I'll watch over Takeru. As long as he's important to her, I'll protect him as if he were my own brother."

By this point Sora was hissing at me – "Psst! _Pssssst!"_ – which, to translate, meant "What the heck are you doing, and why on earth do you need to be the center of attention even at someone _else's_ funeral!?" I was done anyway, so I hobbled away from the coffin. And like Lot's wife, I couldn't help throwing one last glance over my shoulder. And that's when _It_ happened.

When you see a ghost, your insides don't freeze with terror. Your tongue doesn't stick to the roof of your mouth. Your skin doesn't prickle and your hair doesn't go stark white. Actually it feels perfectly natural, like running into a friend you haven't seen in years, and your heart gives a little surprised leap, and then you smile and link arms. Ghosts don't show up all disgusting with knives protruding from their skulls or bleeding stumps where limbs should be. I don't know who decides on a ghost's appearance, but they're considerate, at least. Who wants to be seen, even if only by the supernaturally-adept, all dirty and unpresentable? Most people don't, and the same goes for ghosts.

They aren't always transparent either, or intangible – not to people who can see them. And their toes don't hover inches above the floor. And they don't glow. Or fly. Or shapeshift. If they do any of those things, they aren't ghosts. They're Something Else.

So when I saw the spirit of Ishida Yamato, the fact that it was impossible for him to be there, leaning his hip casually against a headstone, scowling over the heads in the crowd, didn't register until much later. I just stared for a minute, uncomprehending, and then I smiled. I think I may also have said "hello" or something, because a few people turned to stare at me, but I can't be sure. Because at that moment Yamato's ghost shot me that Look I was telling you about earlier – the one that dared me to break my promise and let harm come to Takeru.

And then I fainted. Just like that.

* * *

_A/N: Hi kittens! Hope you enjoyed chapter 2. Chapter 3 will be up in a week or so. Thanks so much for all your reviews thus far; they really brightened my day!_

_edit: The discrepancy with Sora's age has been fixed! Thank you, bookworm1080 and Devildelivery for the correction!  
_


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